


No Clear Light

by agent_orange



Category: American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: 5 Times, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Amputation, Blow Jobs, Break Up, College, Drug Addiction, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Relapsing, Tattoos, Withdrawal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:48:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_orange/pseuds/agent_orange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four ways Will tried to show Tunny he loved him and one time he said it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Clear Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oxoniensis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/gifts).



> Thanks to [](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://mydocuments.livejournal.com/)**mydocuments** for her medical expertise.

**i.**

Zoey gets called back four months after she comes with Tunny to Oakland. He'd been staying with her since then, but Will knows Tunny isn't ready, physically or mentally, to live alone yet.

Will's seen him with his prosthesis—Tunny's having trouble getting the hang of it, fumbling and awkward, testing out what he can and can't do. It's weird. For as long as Will's known him, Tunny's been pretty good at almost everything he's tried, sometimes without putting much effort into it. Will watched him breeze through AP Calc while he was struggling to even pass Statistics.

"I bet we could fit a second bed into my apartment," Will says. Tunny's been at his parents' house for a week ( _fuckin' miserable, man,_ Tunny had said, and Will doesn't blame him. Tunny's parents are hard to deal with, at best.), and already Will's seen how it's taking its toll. "If you want, I mean."

"Thanks," Tunny says. "I'd like that."

It turns out they do manage to fit Tunny's bed into Will's apartment, but it's a tight squeeze with how little space their is. Johnny helps half-heartedly—he relapsed a couple weeks ago, and another attempt to detox has him sweaty and shaking all the time. The bedposts get a few dings on the trip up two flights of stairs, but nothing big enough to make them worry that the frame could suddenly collapse.

Actually, it's kind of a miracle Will can keep his apartment at all. GameStop—surprisingly—hasn't fired him for missing a good third of his shifts. The rent's low, though, thanks to the shitty location of the place.

Tunny's doing better than he was when he first came home, but he still can't work. It could be a few months, or a year. Maybe even two. He doesn't have a degree, and between the tattoos, the leg, and the attitude, Will thinks it'll probably be an uphill battle.

Seeing Tunny try to walk is sort of like watching a toddler try to do so, only a thousand times more painful, since it's his second time learning and he doesn't have full control over his leg. He doesn't even have a fucking knee—" _the force from the IED blast broke my femur, so the doctors had to cut my leg off above my knee,_ " Will's heard Tunny say at least fifty times to people around town, former high school classmates. Once, he told a curious little girl, in those exact words. Her big eyes had gotten shiny with tears, and her mom bitched Tunny out. Not that Tunny had cared.

He takes two Oxycodone a day. Tunny's supposed to have one in the morning and one at night, but he sleeps a lot and his schedule's pretty fucked up, so it varies. He gets nauseous and lightheaded at the same time, so all he can do is sip ginger ale and wait for one of them to pass. The headaches he get usually wind up with both of them sitting in silence on the couch.

It's terrible at night, though. At best, Tunny wakes up yelling a couple times a week; at worst, multiple times a night. The record is ten times in seven days, though it's kind of a terrible thing to have a record for. At first, Will got in bed with Tunny when he woke up, like they used to do when they were younger. They end up just going to bed together, an unspoken agreement. That way, Will can quiet Tunny down quicker, keeping their neighbors' annoyance levels as low as possible.

When Will gets woken up because Tunny's twitching violently or sweating, it's a sign that a flashback's coming on. Will tries to shake him out of it before it gets too bad. Sometimes it works. He holds Tunny as he thrashes, keeps him from trying to get out of bed. On one occasion, Will gets a black eye; on another, it's a split lip so puffy and tender that, for a few days afterward, it hurts just to eat.

*  

Tunny uses crutches when he's not up for wrestling with his prothesis. They're generally a better alternative, but it doesn't take long before Tunny ends up with purplish bruises underneath his arms. Will winces in sympathy, and makes Tunny sit with bags of frozen vegetables to keep the swelling down.

*  

Reality shows aren't any less insane when Will's half-baked. He feels sort of cheated, but he's too lazy to get up and find the remote.

"My toe itches," Tunny says. A commercial for insurance is on in the background. "I can't make it stop itching."

Will knows Tunny's not talking about the toe on his right leg. He's not sure what the appropriate response is.

"My leg hurts, too," he adds. "I need more pain meds."

The TV's digital clock says it's eight-forty PM, and Tunny's been up since nine this morning. He's had his two pills. Will remembers how Heather used to give him massages when his neck hurt, and wonders why it wouldn't work now. "Be right back," he says. He keeps lotion in the bedside table for jerking off, and feels a little guilty about what he's going to do with it, but rushes back. "Tell me if it hurts," he says. Tunny starts to ask a question, but Will just gently pulls the blanket back, squirts some lotion into his palm, and carefully touche the place where Tunny's leg ends. "I know your nerve endings are fucked up," Will says. "I thought this might help a little."

There's a lot of scar tissue under his fingers, the skin marred and discolored. He smoothes a light circle there, trying to get a feel for how Tunny's reacting. Tunny doesn't do anything more than close his eyes, so Will guesses it's okay, and keeps going, increasing the pressure. "How's it feel?" he asks.

"Weird," Tunny answers. The lines in his face have smoothed out a little, though. He looks so fucking young. Much too young to have been through what he has.

"Good weird or bad—" 

"Just fucking _weird_ , asshole," Tunny interrupts. "Don't stop."

**ii.**

Eventually, Tunny's doctor tells him that he has to start tapering off the stronger pain meds.

"Look," Tunny says to Will. "I know I've been on your case. But since I have to do it anyway, I...thought we could get clean together. I mean, I'll still have to take T3s or something, but nothing too strong."

Will just got a pretty great blowjob, so agreeing doesn't really seem like a bad idea. Especially if it'll get Tunny off his back; lately, all he can talk about is how Will should stop smoking, stop drinking, stop shooting up. Stop being such a fucking lazy-ass and start doing something with his life.

"You want us to get clean together?" he asks. "That's pretty gay." Will's also a little stoned. Dec has a couple of marijuana plants, and they're kind of awesome.

"Gayer than how I just sucked you cock?" Tunny smirks. "Look, I'm not trying to be a pain in your ass. I just think you'd be a lot happier if you weren't always out of it. And I bet Heather'd let you at least _see_ Katrina if you got your act together."

He's right, of course, but that doesn't make it any easier to hear. "Okay," he says. He knows it'll be a bitch. He also knows Tunny'll be there, doing the same thing.

*

Hangover in full force, Will thinks getting clean is the worst fucking idea _ever_. Tunny's rooting around in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers and cabinets. There's the distinct sound of glass clinking, and it seems to go on forever.

"Jesus Christ," he groans. "What the fuck are you doing?"

No answer. When Tunny doesn't stop shuffling around after a few minutes, Will drags himself out of bed and pads, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen.

It looks like someone trashed the place. Will's bottle of Ketel One is empty of alcohol, but full of needles. There's duct tape over the top. The rest of the bottles are in a cardboard box, and Tunny's dumped Will's heroin and weed into the same bag.

"Holy fuck!" he yells. "Do you know much money that cost me?"

Tunny's calm, though, green eyes cold and focused. "You gave me your word, Will," he says. "You'll save money, in the long run. You'll be happier." He takes Will's pretty, colored glass bong and dumps it in the trash.

"I'd hit you if you weren't a fucking cripple," Will says, voice rough. It's meant to hurt in a way he never thought he'd direct at his best friend.

Tunny clenches his jaw, muscles shifting in the light. "I know you're really angry right now, so I'll let that one slide. You'll have to make it up to me later, though. Also, I'm doing you the favor or not throwing out your cigarettes right now, like I should. That'll come later."

*

Late afternoon, the heroin withdrawal starts. Will's shaky in and in pain. His nose won't stop running, and he can't stop shivering, despite the fact that he's got a fever of 102 degrees.

"Y-you didn't t-tell me you weren't going c-cold turkey like you're ma-making me, you f-fucking asshole," Will swears, right before he vomits again.

Tunny pats his mouth with a cold washcloth. "I have to scale back, idiot," he says. "You can't go from Schedule II drugs to Schedule III. Not for pain. Maybe one day I'll just be taking Advil." Will spits bile into the toilet, and Tunny adds, "The first few days are the hardest, but you can do it."

The DTs come later. Will's blood feels itchy; all the scratching leaves him with scabs on his arms. The first few days _are_ the hardest, and he feels like he wants to die.

*  

A couple weeks later, Will's grudgingly going to an NA meeting, Tunny at his side. Some of what they're spouting is bullshit, but Will manages to separate that from the decent advice.

One day he starts fooling around online, looking for a job that's not so dead-end. He starts working at this dive bar, ironically, and resists drinking because he's not going to do it at _work_.

It's a terrible idea. He should've seen it. He should've listened to Tunny.

Will relapses, over and over and over again. He hangs out in the seedier parts of town—places like the ones Johnny stopped going to. He barely makes rent, and he'd guess all of Tunny's disability check goes to paying for groceries and utilities. After the second relapse, Will stays clean for three months. That's the longest time.

It goes on like this for almost a year and a half. Tunny leaves him, over and over and over again. He can't deal with the bullshit, he says, but he always comes back, always stays up with Will when he's got the shakes. The weed makes Will hungry, but the heroin takes away his appetite, so he has almost-skeletal periods, and chubby periods.

At one point, his habit gets so out of control that he sells his bed for drug money. Ben lends Will his rusty old pickup, and Will drives around until he finds what he thinks is a secondhand store that'll pay a decent price. He sells some product and buys a bed for him and Tunny to share.

The next day, he borrows Ben's truck again and sells Tunny's bed at the same store.

*

One morning, Will's mother drags him out of bed. The sun's already overhead, but it feels too early. 

"Get up," she says harshly. She's got his duffle bag in her hand. He starts to protest, but she shushes him, leading him outside to where Tunny's waiting by the car.

She drives for at least an hour; the ride is silent and tense. Will's furious at Tunny for betraying him.

When his mom finally stops the car, they're parked by a circle of nice-looking buildings. The grounds are green and well-kept.

"William Caleb Robinson," she says, and Will hasn't heard _that_ since high school. "This is your home for the next thirty days. Rehab." She holds up her hand. "I don't want to hear any complaints. You're ruining your life, and I didn't raise you to be a failure. You're going to do this right the first time, because neither of us can afford to pay for a program like this again. So straighten the hell out and fly the fuck right."

Will can't even find the words to say anything. He's in awe.

*

Dear Diary,

Rehab sucks. ~~I miss Tunny.~~

Love,

Will

*

After, he's fine. It's the weirdest thing. He still wants drugs sometimes, but he's learned how to "compartmentalize the urges" and "channel his desires into something more productive."

The local tattoo/body piercing place hires him as an apprentice. He loves it, even though the pay's shit. For what might be the first time (aside from skateboarding), he likes learning how to do something, and there's almost too much information to take in.

When his training's done, they take him on as an assistant piercer/artist. It's enough for Will to take an art class at community college. One art class turns into two, and art class turns into graphic design and creative media. His professors say he has a lot of potential, and people start to hear about his body work.

Will graduates with an AA, near the top of his class. In the front row, Tunny can't stop snapping pictures to the point where the only thing Will can see is the flash. It's a mystery how he doesn't trip and fall. Johnny's there with Will's mom, who's crying, and their whole group of friends cheer loudly when Will gets his diploma.

Surprisingly, he really wants to get his bachelors. It's weird; he hasn't ever liked learning. But they don't have enough money just yet, so he starts picking up more shifts at the parlor, and waits tables at the diner down the block in the mornings. People ask about the streaks of blue in his hair, his tattoos and cartilage piercing, and Will refers them back to Max's, offers to fit them in when he can.

He gets some business that way, and he ends up—somehow—getting a loan to cover the rest. San Francisco State University's only a thirty-three minute commute (without traffic); most days he's there early enough to beat the morning rush.

At first, he'd worried about Tunny. What if something happened to him and Will wasn't there to help? But Tunny said that worrying all the time wasn't really living life at all. Eventually, Will started to feel more comfortable with the whole thing. And it's not like he couldn't rush home if he needed to.

Industrial Arts is a pretty cool major. It's difficult, but he's willing to work hard. Tunny promises Will that if he gets a B average (or above), he can finally add to Tunny's impressive collection of ink, which is something he's wanted for a long time. Plus, he already sort of knows the basic ideas about aesthetics and shit.

With a lot of effort, Will earns a 3.209 average, and doesn't even feel like a dork about it. It takes Tunny over a month to decide on what he wants, which frustrates Will. He knows for a fact that Tunny got _Gemma_ on his left arm one night on a whim. (His drunkeness doesn't excuse that.) In the end, though, he settles on _we see what we want_ across the back of his shoulder.

Will has to do it at the studio—sanitary conditions and licensing and shit—but as soon as he's done, he drives them home as quickly as he can without getting pulled over. They make out for like three hours on the couch. Will doesn't get adrenaline rushes at work, but he knows Tunny's buzzing, and it's the first time he's worked on somebody he cared about so much, so he sort of feels high. But in a good, non-addictive way.

Later, when Will knows the pain's subsided a bit, he angles a mirror to show Tunny his handiwork. The skin surrounding the letters is pink and tender, and the ink's so dark against his pale skin.

"Wow," Tunny breathes. "It looks amazing." 

*

Things start to change, but for the better this time. Somehow, a few scratch-off tickets (from the twenty bucks' worth Tunny bought) are winners. They're doing alright with rent and necessities, so he buys a camera, messing around with it every chance he gets. He gets permission to sit in on (and photograph) a few of Will's appointments.

Tunny's cousin invites them to see her roller derby team skate in the league championships, and even from the sidelines, Tunny gets some sick action shots. At first, taking pictures is just a hobby, something for him to do when he's not crunching numbers for this small insurance agency (which Will thinks is totally boring and depressing, especially the life insurance estimates).

It starts to evolve into more of a photojournalism thing. Sometimes they go into San Francisco so Tunny can shoot the remaining hippies, Big Block gang members, swingers in the Marina District, and the historic buildings of Hayes Valley. Once, they take the ferry over to Alcatraz Island, but there are too many steps; all Tunny can do is get wide shots of the building and background. Will uses his graphic design skills to set up a website for Tunny to post some sample photos.

A few months later, Tunny greets Will with a huge smile on his face.

"I got a call from this art gallery today," he says. "They want to use my pictures for an exhibition on counterculture. People who live 'on the fringes of society' or something."

"Mother _fucker_ ," Will says, and kisses Tunny hard.

**iii.**

Colorado in December is so pretty, as it turns out. Funny; Will had always heard it the altitude change sucked.

They're there because Will's treating Tunny to a little (extremely well-deserved) time off. It's also the site of this Paradox Sports' clinic that focuses on semi-extreme sports—hockey, skateboarding, snowboarding, skiing, rock climbing—for vets and 'physically impaired' people (to quote Tunny). Actually, that's the main reason they're there, but it's nice just the same.

It's strange, how Will used to struggle to pay for food and A/C, and now they're both doing well enough that, in a few months, they'll be paying first and last months' rent for a studio in Adam's Point. It feels more permanent, but Will's had time to adjust, isn't scared.

At the clinic, nobody looks at Tunny like he's broken or fucked-up or a murderer. There are other veterans there, and nobody judges. Everybody's encouraging. 

Tunny hasn't done any of these things in years, and it's clear to Will just how much he'd missed them. He stands on the skateboard like he's eleven again, a newbie, and falls. A lot. He has to re-learn everything, but by the end of the day, he's got the basics down (along with plenty of bruises).

Rock climbing is a little easier, since there's more upper-body strength involved, and Tunny looks so happy on the wall that it's worth the entire cost of the trip.

**iv.**

Tunny pads into the kitchen, naked except for the sweatpants that are slung low across his hips.

"You know my asshole of a dad?" he asks.

Will wonders where this is going, but he knows it can't be good. Tunny's dad walked out on them when Tunny was eight, leaving Addie with two kids to take care of—one of them a toddler—and no way to support them; since they were never married, he wasn't obligated to pay her a cent. "Yeah," he answers.

"He's suddenly decided that _now_ he wants to be part of my life. He wants to be sorry almost twenty fucking years later. He hasn't done a thing for me since he left and now he wants to 'get together for dinner.' Like _I'm_ the one who owes him something." Tunny's face is flushed red, his jaw and fists clenched tight in anger.

And Will sees his point. Really. The guy just up and left without an explanation, and Tunny's mom had to work three shitty jobs to keep Tunny and Maeve fed and clothed. But he also knows how much people can change. Fuck, he turned his entire life around, and that's made him realize everybody deserves a second chance. "I know you're mad," he says, trying to keep his voice calming. "I just...think you should have him over. It's a couple hours, at most, and...remember how much I changed? I couldn't have done it without you. No matter what he's done, he deserves another chance. How do you think I'd feel if Heather decided never to let me see Katrina again? Yeah, I was young and stupid, but I'm not anymore. Maybe your dad changed, too."

Tunny sighs. "I don't know where you learned how to make people listen to you like that," he says. "Fine. One fucking dinner. You can cook, and you can make it up to me if he flakes out."  

"Done." Will smiles.

*

He's a pretty good cook, but making dinner for someone he kind of wants to impress is harder than Will would've thought. After lots of internet research, Will ends up making roast chicken, dilled green beans, and brownies. Hopefully Tunny's dad won't make any stupid comments about Will, or about them, but he's not holding his breath.

Surprisingly, Dave shows up on time. He's dressed in khakis and a button-down, and his hair's almost entirely gray.

"Timothy," he says. "It's...good to see you."

"I told you on the phone, Dave, it's Tunny."

Dave's face falls, and Will almost feels sorry for the jerk, except that Tunny's wearing shorts and his father can't stop staring at his prosthetic leg like it's an infectious disease.

"How'd it happen?" Dave asks.

"IED," Tunny says coldly. "Which you'd know, if you'd been around more."

"Dinner's almost ready," Will says, trying to defuse the tension. "There's beer in the fridge, if you want one."  

"No, thanks," Dave says, and then, "Tim—Tunny didn't tell me you were his roommate, Will. It's great that you guys are still friends after so many years."

"We're not roommates." Tunny's eyes are narrowed; he looks like he's ready for a fight. "Problem?"  

From there, things go downhill so quickly Will barely has time to register them. Dave quotes a lot of scripture at them, and Tunny starts yelling about growing up without a father and abandonment and that the Bible isn't always right.

It's Will who ends it, though. "Enough!" he shouts, and both men look at him shocked. "I'm the one who convinced Tunny to have you over. I convinced him you'd changed, and clearly, I was wrong. But you don't get to come into _our_ house and say we're sinners, say we're going to Hell because what we're doing is wrong. You need to leave, and you won't be back."  

Tunny kisses him before the door's fully closed, desperate and longing. "God, I—" his voice breaks. Will pulls him close, a gesture meant to comfort. "I can't believe I thought he'd be different," he finishes.

"He's a douchewad," Will says. "Come on, dinner's fucking awesome. I'm not letting it go to waste."

**v.**

It's still early enough that going back to sleep wouldn't be a bad idea, but Will just can't seem to. He's not particularly worried about anything, though he's half-hard. Not enough to make him do anything about it; just enough that he's aware of it.

His mouth is sort of dry; he considers getting up for a glass of water, but decides against it. Tunny's kind of a light sleeper, and his leg hurts more when he's tired. Instead, Will stares at the crack in the ceiling; counts the few stars he can see from the window; makes a mental list of what they need at the grocery store.

Tunny's alway had a baby face (he got a lot of shit for it in high school), but in the orangey glow from the street lights, the angles of his face are smoothed out, made soft. It cuts a line across his face, distorting his skin color.

Carefully, Will presses a palm to the flat of Tunny's stomach, feeling how warm and smooth it is. One area isn't, though, a long, narrow slash across Tunny's hip. Will knows it by sight and feel: faded to a silvery-gray by now, and only slightly raised. It's a constant reminder of what could have happened in Iraq.

It's not long before Tunny wakes, body shifting against Will's, his breath quickening.

"Got your hands in my pants already, I see," Tunny says, even though they're not. It'd be an easy adjustment, though.

"Why? Should I?" Will smiles. "Because I can leave right now and take care of this by myself."

"Don't," Tunny says, voice gone serious. He reaches back to squeeze Will's hip, right where the compass is, fingers tight over the _N_ and _W_.

"If you insist," Will says, tugging Tunny's pants down so he can get a hand inside. It's too early to be kissing (read: they both have morning breath), but Will presses his lips to Tunny's neck, biting just a little. Tunny's hips jerk forward, slipping from Will's grasp and meeting air.

"I can't..." he chokes, and Will pulls him back, saying _shh, shh, I've got you_. Will's motions are slow but insistent; it takes Tunny a long time to finally come apart.

"I love you," Will whispers, stroking him through it, feeling Tunny's body jerk and go limp against him.


End file.
